"I'm a Snow Blower," my latest patient explained, in lieu of a normal introduction.

That had been the trend lately. The Phonographs, the Autogyros, the Diesel Engines -- affluent youths with cybernetic addictions were all naming their little "gangs" after obsolete tech, these days.

"Listen, you want a group discount for your gang, come back with a half dozen of your friends ready to get work done and maybe, maybe we'll talk about that." I said, bluntly. "Otherwise, I deal in creds, as in actual gov or crypto credits, not street cred."

She shook her head. "No no no. I'm not in a gang called 'The Snow Blowers'. I, personally, am a snow blower."

"What?"

"A motorized device used for removing snow from sidewalks -- although it actually uses an auger or impeller, rather than air pressure, so the 'blower' part is kind of a misnomer." she explained. "See, before thermal pavement was common, people used to--"

"I know what a snow blower is!" I snapped. "What do you mean you are one?"

"Well, I mean I would have been one, if only I'd been born into the right era." she amended, looking off into space wistfully, presumably imagining someone slowly pushing her across a snow-covered sidewalk.

"If only." I said, drily. "So you want me to...?"

"These come off," she said briskly, drawing imaginary lines across her legs. "Instead, put on a Class R fusion engine, and either tank treads or some big knobby tires, and then up front, instead of my arms--"

"Get out."